And you know what crap feels like.
I think it's poetic justice somehow, because Da Boyz were all easy peesy, labor and all. It's only fair that This One be ... the epitome of horrible.
Mostly I just lay around and moan.
I've been taking my doctor-recommended Emetrol for my morning-afternoon-night-sickness, but I'm pretty sure that J.K. Rowling had it in mind when describing Skele-gro. It's that bad. And I'm not entirely convinced that it helps that much. (Although I actually cooked yesterday, so maybe it did do SOMETHING.)
I have a friend. Her name is Geny. She throws up for the first four months of her pregnancies. She lays on her side with the bucket below her mouth, letting the acidic drool drip out of her system. I believe she was hospitalized more than she was not.
And she had THREE kids. Voluntarily.
And then there's me, with only two weeks of misery to my name, and I cry about it to anyone that comes my way. (Although crying does have its benefits; a friend is watching Ouro Branco and Mr. Squishy for me, generously allowing me to blog and wallow in self-pity.)
I've been lauded for being 'tough' - I breeze through my pregnancies and spend a few hours breathing deeply until they're born. No drugs. "Wow, That Girl, you're so tough! So courageous! So strong!"
But I'm thinking that you don't know how strong you are until you've had some real opposition.
And ladies and gents, I'm WEAK.